Their Rules
by Joodiff
Summary: In which Grace comes to terms with the fact that despite appearances, the grass is not always greener... Birthday present for Gemenied. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER** – I own nothing.

_This one's a birthday present for Gemenied. Happy birthday! xx_

* * *

**Their Rules**

by Joodiff

* * *

The evening starts well enough, but quickly shows no sign of rising above the mediocre at very best. He is agreeable enough, her dining companion; a year or two her senior, he's a successful fellow psychologist Grace has encountered professionally a few times at various seminars and functions. Well-dressed and distinguished-looking, he's articulate and intelligent, and though he seems genuinely pleasant it doesn't take her long to ruefully conclude that socially he is both unremittingly dull and deeply set in his ways. They have enough in common to keep a ponderous conversation going, but it's something of a chore – for Grace, at least. Eugene Lawson does not seem to notice. It isn't that he's rude, or even that he's opinionated – either would make him at least vaguely interesting – it's just that he is… tedious. Very, very tedious.

So incredibly tedious, in fact, that when Grace politely makes her excuses and heads towards the expensive restaurant's discreetly positioned restrooms, she diverts to a quiet, out-of-the-way corner and quickly rummages through her handbag for her phone. The first number she tries is obstinately engaged; the second goes straight to voicemail – Spencer Jordan's easily-identifiable voice helpfully telling her that there is no-one currently available at the Metropolitan Police's Cold Case Unit to take her call and that she should either leave a message or call again unless the matter is extremely urgent, in which case she should press '1' to be immediately connected to the building's main switchboard. Neither option is of any use to Grace in her current situation. Grudgingly, she tries a third number.

It rings only twice before a familiar male voice inquires languidly, "Don't tell me – he's a closet serial killer?"

"Worse," Grace tells him, also eschewing any kind of greeting, "he's mind-numbingly boring. Can you give me five minutes and then call me with something vitally important that absolutely can't wait until the morning?"

"Hmm," Boyd's reflective voice says in her ear, "let me think about this for a moment. You throw me over for a guy called Eugene – "

"Oh, come _on_," she complains.

But he hasn't finished. " – and then when he turns out to be as dull as ditchwater you expect me to bail you out."

Really, she's more amused than irritated by his deliberate petulance, but she keeps her tone serious. "Boyd…"

"Eugene, Grace. I mean… _Eugene_, for God's sake. What a bloody stupid name."

"Jealousy is unbecoming in a man of your age."

He gives in, starts to laugh and eventually asks, "Where are you?"

"_Emilio's_."

"Oh, classy. Steal my restaurant, too, why don't you? You really know how to kick a man when he's down."

"Call me," Grace instructs patiently. "Five minutes."

"I'll think about it," Boyd's voice says nonchalantly, and the line goes abruptly dead.

Without bothering to make use of the facilities, Grace returns to the table. And Eugene. Who greets her solicitously, and immediately returns to a lengthy and far-too detailed explanation of why he far prefers white wine to red. Grace wonders if he will actually pause when her phone rings. _If_ her phone rings. It would be a very Boyd-like thing to do to ignore her plea in deliberate retaliation for her absolute refusal to stay late to help him deal with the astonishing amount of paperwork generated by the CCU's latest successfully completed investigation.

Five minutes grind slowly past. No phone call. Grace grits her teeth, nods politely and encouragingly in Eugene's direction whenever he does pause for breath, and silently starts to plot cold, calculating revenge on Peter Boyd. Ten minutes pass. Eugene is now holding forth on the relative merits of French and Italian cuisine, and Grace begins to seriously wonder if he would actually notice if she accidentally nodded off right in front of him. Fifteen minutes, and he's still talking and smiling as if they are having the most scintillating conversation imaginable. Her attention, however, is momentarily caught by the tall, bearded figure in the long dark top coat who is casually strolling into the restaurant.

_Oh, thank God, _she thinks. _Better late than never, I suppose._

Boyd waves the head waiter off easily and heads straight for their table; it doesn't escape Grace's attention that he's grinning at her in a manner that suggests he's finding the whole unfortunate situation highly entertaining. However, the grin disappears completely as he makes his final approach. His expression becomes almost completely unreadable, and the bright spark of amusement vanishes from his eyes. Too late, it occurs to Grace that perhaps asking Boyd for rescue was not the best idea she could have had.

Abruptly, he is looming over Eugene who breaks off mid-sentence and looks up with a startled expression to ask, "I'm sorry… Can I help you?"

Grace isn't sure what she expects, but she certainly doesn't expect Boyd to shrug his broad shoulders and say, "Shouldn't think so. Not unless you'd like to explain to me why you're apparently having an intimate dinner with my wife?"

He's incorrigible. Really. He just can't be trusted to do even the simplest thing without somehow twisting it into something which better appeals to his dark, obscure sense of humour. Damn him.

Eugene looks simultaneously astounded and mortified and he instantly gets to his feet and starts to bluster. For the very first time since they sat down to eat, Grace can't help feeling incredibly sorry for him.

-oOo-

He's still grinning. Insufferable, infuriating man. It's well beneath her dignity to slap him, but even so Grace is sorely tempted. Every time she shoots him a sideways glance the intolerable grin widens, proving beyond all doubt that he isn't remotely abashed by her censorious annoyance. She should just wave down a taxi and get into it, of course, leaving him to get on with his smug satisfaction on his own. Except that he's too thick-skinned to care very much and she's damned if she's not going to try to salvage _something_ from the long, tortuous evening. With considerable asperity, she complains, "It's all right for _you_, Boyd; everyone knows you're a borderline sociopath with an attitude problem and a ridiculously immature sense of humour, but _I'm_ supposed to be a highly-respected consultant with an unblemished professional reputation. How the hell am I supposed to look Eugene in the eye the next time our paths cross at a conference or something?"

"Shouldn't be too difficult," he counters nonchalantly, "he's such a short-arsed little runt you could sit down and still be able to look him straight in the eye."

"You're just so funny, aren't you?"

"Eugene, Grace. _Eugene_. I rest my case."

"Oh, shut up."

Boyd does. For about thirty seconds. Then he rather-too-casually inquires, "Why are you accepting random dinner invitations from stupidly-named men, anyway?"

It's too good an opportunity to miss. With a sarcastic snort she replies, "Oh, I don't know; let me think… maybe because _someone_ not a million miles away has some serious commitment issues that he absolutely refuses to address?"

"God, you've really got it in for me tonight, haven't you?"

"I wonder why that could be."

They are walking along the Embankment now, looking across the river to the lights of the South Bank. It's a mild night for the time of year and they are not the only people sedately wandering in the general direction of the City, but somehow they are set apart in their own distinct world, a private place unique to them, one that has always existed in the carefully neutral space between their professional and private lives. A place where they can be something a little more than simply friends and colleagues when it suits them. Their place, their rules. The outer boundaries of that place may fluctuate wildly with changing circumstances, but the tacit understanding of how and where they fit into each other's lives is an enduring one.

A few steps further along the riverbank and she snidely asks, "Anyway, why do _you_ care?"

Boyd glances at her, faintly bemused. "What?"

"Why do you care who I'm having dinner with?" she presses.

"Christ, that's stooping a bit low, Grace."

Perhaps it is, she sombrely reflects as they continue to walk. She's certainly not some poor downtrodden, brow-beaten female with no independent life of her own, one who dances submissively to the tune of the man currently strolling at her side – and Boyd is not altogether as selfish and single-minded as she often likes to deliberately pretend. The truth is that she's reached a time and place in her life where she thoroughly enjoys the freedom to do exactly as she pleases without having to grudgingly compromise with someone else. No, their complex, often contradictory personal relationship is not simply a one-way street that heavily favours him. She's as guilty as Boyd is of not just _accepting_ the way things are, the way they've always been, but actively _keeping_ them that way – not because she has no other choice but because the status quo has always rather suited her.

As her dark mood begins to lift, so her annoyance with him starts to fade. In fact, she's beginning to see the funny side of the whole Eugene… debacle. Not that she's at all ready to admit that to Boyd. Nudging him, she says, "Actually, it's rather sweet."

"What is?"

"How jealous you get."

The response is a disgusted, "Oh, please."

Chuckling, Grace impulsively slips her arm through his, squeezing affectionately as she says, "Don't worry, Boyd, your secret's perfectly safe; I'm sure it's more than adequately covered by the Official Secrets Act."

"I just wish you'd make your bloody mind up," he grumbles. "One minute I'm a… what was it, again? …oh, yes, a 'borderline sociopath', the next you're accusing me of being… No, I just can't bring myself to say it."

"Sweet."

He winces pointedly. "Yeah, that."

Releasing her grip on his arm, Grace halts, looking out across the Thames, mildly entranced by the hypnotic way the lights reflect on the dark, choppy water. Boyd immediately tucks in behind her, his broad chest warm against her back as his arms encircle her waist. Close to her ear, he says softly, "Do you really blame me? For being just the tiniest bit jealous?"

She knows the question is entirely rhetorical. In fact, it's not a question at all, not really. It's a difficult admission that he would struggle to make any other way, and because she knows how much it costs him she doesn't needle in response. Instead she says quietly, "It was just dinner, Boyd. Nothing else."

"It's not my place to tell you what you can and can't do in your free time."

She nods, deciding to take his words at face value despite the subtle hint of resentment in his tone. "I know. But even so…"

"Don't go there," Boyd advises quietly.

Tonight is not the night to attempt to discuss all the things they've been deliberately not confronting for a very long time. Yet, she's bold enough and honest enough to say quietly, "You do know things will have to change one day, don't you? This nebulous… arrangement… we have – it's not going to work, not forever."

"Oh, God, Grace. Do you really have to describe it like that? As an _arrangement_?"

"It's the truth, don't you think?"

"No."

"No?"

"There's surely more to it."

"Than…?" she probes, wondering what his response will be.

He avoids a direct answer. "It just sounds so… harsh. Dispassionate."

Grace understands. Boyd is the least dispassionate of men. True, he does his best to maintain a solid façade of gruff composure and he is not at all sentimental, but wild extremes of emotion are his Achilles' heel, no doubt about it. Rage, lust… jealousy. He is subject to them all – far more than she is. Not afraid to tease a little, she says, "You really are a bit of an old-fashioned romantic at heart, aren't you, Boyd?"

He growls in response, but a moment later she feels the soft brush of his lips against her neck. The briefest and gentlest of touches, an attempt to convey something of what he simply doesn't know how to say to her. He is not a bad man, she knows that. Wounded, angry and alarmingly flawed in some ways, but not a bad man. Still, she isn't sure if he has it left in him to successfully sustain a conventional relationship with anyone, not anymore. Or if that's even what she ultimately wants from him. Maybe they really are better as they are, drifting along together on parallel paths that sometimes meet before diverging again.

"Let's go home," he says abruptly. Home is a flexible sort of concept, sometimes encompassing either or both of their houses without regard for ownership, sometimes not. Tonight Grace automatically knows that if she acquiesces they will retreat to his big, elegant townhouse in Greenwich. It's nearer, and somehow it never seems to offer them as many dangerous hints of an imaginary shared domesticity as her house does. Or perhaps that's purely a flight of fancy on her part.

-oOo-

"So how did your dinner date go?" Eve inquires as they head slowly towards the CCU's squad room and the inevitably thorny morning briefing.

With a grimace, Grace replies, "I think the best that can be said about it is that the fish was very good."

"That bad, eh? Only, I called you late last night, and when you didn't answer I wondered if breakfast had been added to the menu."

"Stranger things have happened, though not in this case."

Eve's dark eyebrows lift. "I thought you said you liked him?"

"Oh, he's a nice enough chap. Just not my type, it transpires."

"Really?" Eve says, a distinct note of amusement colouring her tone. "Because I think I should also mention that I called your house again first thing this morning and, surprise, surprise, still no answer."

Despite the significant disparity in their ages, they have become unexpectedly close during the time they have worked together and Grace does not bridle at the news. She takes the words as they are intended and merely smiles enigmatically as she shrugs. "I have other friends."

"Other _gentlemen_ friends?"

"I couldn't possibly comment."

Eve's answering look is intense and suspicious. And extremely acute. Almost immediately she says, "Why do you do it to yourself, Grace? He's _never_ going to give you what you want."

She doesn't bother to dissemble. It's not her way. "Eve, even _I_ don't know what I want, so I think it's rather unlikely that _you_ do. Besides, I like him."

"Stability," Eve says promptly, "security, companionship. Love. The same things we all want. And you don't have to sleep with him just because you like him."

"What if I _like_ sleeping with him?" Grace innocently asks.

Eve's resigned sigh is perfectly audible. "You two really do deserve each other, you know that, don't you? So, go on, why don't you tell me exactly what happens when the next Sarah comes along? Have you really forgotten how quickly he took off for the States and how hurt and jealous you were?"

She hasn't. But nor is she inclined to discuss the matter. It's over and done and that's all that she cares about now. "We have – "

" – an understanding. Yes, I know. So you keep saying. Oh, it's none of my bloody business, is it?"

"No, it's not," Grace agrees calmly, "but don't think I don't appreciate the friendly concern."

Her colleague sighs again. "Look, Grace, sleep with Boyd or don't sleep with Boyd, it's entirely up to you – but there are less… dysfunctional… men out there. That's all I'm saying."

"I'm a psychologist," Grace says mildly, "dysfunctional is interesting."

"Right," is the sceptical reply.

"I mean it. I'm sure Eugene – "

Eve snorts. "_Eugene_…?"

Ignoring her, Grace continues, " – is a very nice man, but, my God, he's boring. The highlight of his conversation last night was a twenty-minute discourse on how best to serve _merluzzo al cartoccio_."

Eve pulls a face. "Oh, well. Boyd it is, then."

"I knew you'd see things my way eventually."

"I wouldn't go quite that far. But if it works for you…"

"It seems to," Grace says, and suddenly she's quite serious. "Maybe you need to be _in_ a situation to understand it properly."

"Psychologist's view?"

"View of someone who's been round the block a few times, Eve."

For a moment Eve is silent, then she says, "You know what they call it nowadays, don't you? Friends with benefits."

Grace shakes her head. "Far too simplistic."

"If you say so. So _Eugene_ got given his marching orders, did he?"

She shudders deliberately. "Don't. It was so bad that I had to call for back-up in the end."

"Ah ha," Eve says triumphantly. "Suddenly things start to make a kind of sense. The traditional 'sorry, I've got to go' phone call, eh?"

"If _only_. You know Boyd – he loves to improvise. Poor Eugene. I really must call him later to apologise again."

"He didn't hit him, did he?"

"No," Grace tells her, deadpan, "he told him I was his wife."

With a dark chuckle, Eve responds, "Ah, I see."

"What does that mean? 'Ah, I see', in that tone of voice?"

"Nothing," Eve says smoothly, "nothing at all. It's just an interesting choice of tactics… don't you think?"

Grace favours her with a glacial look. "I'll tell you what _I_ think; _I_ think it's time to change the subject."

Eve is grinning irrepressibly, but she says nothing further as they finally reach the basement squad room where their colleagues are waiting.

-oOo-

It's very late now, and from behind his desk, Boyd watches her indolently, hands nonchalantly behind his head, jacket off, shirt-sleeves rolled to the elbow. It's very distracting. Valiantly, Grace continues talking, and – thank God – she already knows the details of their new chief suspect's psychological profile so well that the words come automatically. Boyd is doing it quite deliberately, she's damn sure of it. As sure as she is that there's absolutely nothing inadvertent about the extra shirt button that's carelessly unfastened or the oh-so-accidental bulge of bicep caused by his casual pose. Absolutely, categorically deliberate. No doubt about it. She could challenge him about it, but she knows that if she does he will simply feign injured innocence – almost certainly with devilment shining in his dark eyes. Exasperating man.

God, she wants him.

It's ridiculous. She's sure they're both far too old for it, even if he is a good few years younger than she is. Damn, now she's completely lost the thread of what she was saying, and Boyd's starting to smirk in that knowing way that reminds her of just how much she wanted to slap him the preceding night.

"Go on," he says urbanely, "Norton's not a typical repeat offender because…?"

_I hate you_, Grace thinks. _I hate you so much..._

Sadly, she doesn't. Intentionally condescending, she says, "If you'd been listening earlier, Boyd…"

"I always listen to you, Grace," he says, absolutely straight-faced, "you know that."

He's an outrageous liar. Irritably, she tosses the manila folder containing her exhaustive notes onto his desk. "Oh, read it for your bloody self. It's gone ten o'clock and everyone else left hours ago."

"I appreciate your commitment, Doctor Foley," Boyd says gravely. There's a measured beat followed by, "Come here."

The unexpected order and the soft growl with which it's delivered cause a tiny but forceful shockwave to travel up and down her spine; one that instantly annoys her. It's a game, of course, but Grace still feels her hackles rise defiantly in response to the autocratic command. Predictably, Boyd spots her involuntary bristling – the sly grin he gives her makes that quite clear. Haughtily, she says, "I'm going home, Boyd. I know that's an extremely difficult concept for you to grasp, but do your best with it, hmm?"

The artful grin just gets wider as he gestures vaguely at the recently-deposited folder. "Who's going to help me with all the long words if you go?"

Grace sighs heavily, pointedly, but it's just for show. Yes, it's a game, and he's intentionally given her the opening she needs for her next move. She walks round the edge of the big desk towards him, unconsciously a touch predatory. He watches, suddenly very intent, but with so much kept hidden in the depths of his eyes. Sometimes Grace thinks she could lose herself forever in those eyes; they're so unfathomable, so intense. The stray thought causes another spontaneous shiver down her back, but she hides it well. The moment she's in reach, Boyd's hands are on her waist. He's never been a patient man, nor will he ever be, and in some ways Grace likes that about him. Sometimes he's far too impulsive, far too reckless, but he's not a man to waste much time with petty regrets. Time and again she's seen him make stupid mistakes only to pick himself up, dust himself down and immediately return to forging straight ahead. She looks at him, can't prevent herself from reaching out and gently stroking his hair. Boyd says nothing, but he holds her gaze steadily and his grip tightens perceptibly. She says, "Come with me."

His answer sounds genuinely regretful. "I can't. Too much left to do here. Dubious privilege of rank."

Arguing with him would be utterly pointless and Grace doesn't even begin to try. Behind the insouciance and the occasional easy-going charm there's a will of iron and a fierce dedication to duty that's absolutely fundamental to his character. Searching his expression, she asks, "Want me to wait up for you…?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Tempting though the idea is…"

Instantly concealing any trace of disappointment, Grace smiles. Stooping to kiss his forehead, she says, "All right. Just try to go home before it actually starts getting light again."

"Why do you think I have a couch in my office?"

She knows he's not joking. Over the years most of their colleagues have arrived early for work at one time or another to find Boyd soundly asleep in his office. There are even scurrilous rumours amongst the more junior officers attached to the unit that he doesn't actually have a home to go to, that he lives entirely out of his locker and his desk drawers. Grace knows better, but she also knows how likely he is to completely lose track of time when there's no-one left in the basement to patiently point out to him that it's well past time to leave for the night.

"All work and no play," she says mildly, preparing to step back.

He draws her against him, wrapping his arms even more firmly around her waist. His expression is earnest, but there's a roguish glint in his eyes as he says, "Who said anything about _no_ play?"

There's suddenly something so engaging about him that Grace has to laugh. "Bad boy."

Boyd tries – and spectacularly fails – to look disarming. "Me?"

"You," she says, and taps his shoulder firmly. "Come on, let go… it's like being hugged by an over-affectionate grizzly bear, and I'm tired and I want to go home."

He doesn't release his hold. "A grizzly bear, Grace? I really don't know whether to be flattered or offended."

Damn the man, he really is both very handsome and very appealing. It's not her fault that Grace surrenders so willingly to the impulse to lower her head and kiss him. Nor is it her fault that his wholehearted response only encourages her further. It's not _her_ fault that she's suddenly got the fingers of both hands buried in his thick, soft hair, or that her tongue's abruptly tangling hotly and wetly with his. It's _emphatically_ not her fault that his lap is suddenly a much more comfortable and attractive proposition than standing wearily in front of him. Or, in fact, that the whole idea of driving home alone is rapidly losing whatever limited appeal it had in the first place. Then Grace feels his fingertips lightly traversing her back through the thin fabric of her blouse, and all coherent thought goes away for the duration.

"A grizzly bear," he eventually says again, the dark, enticing growl back in his voice. "Really?"

Her heart is beating rather faster than it should be. Not only that, but there's a familiar needy ache rising inside her. Perhaps one day his proximity and the heat of his body won't have such a startling physical effect on her, but that day isn't going to dawn any time soon; of that, Grace is fairly certain. Still idly threading her fingers through his hair, she says, "There are _far_ worse things I could call you, Boyd."

That makes him chuckle sardonically. "'Borderline sociopath', for one."

Beautiful man, Grace thinks a little self-consciously. Flawed, fractured, but intensely beautiful. His lips are suddenly on her throat, a gentle caress that makes promises, not demands. His uncharacteristic tenderness doesn't surprise her, not anymore. Neither of them has anything left to prove; all their battles have been fought bloodily and publicly over many, many years, and the sharp corners where they used to knock sparks off each other have long-since been smoothed into a much more harmonious fit. He still shouts, she still criticises, but the bitterest antagonism belongs firmly in the past – and Grace is glad. Time and circumstance have mellowed them both.

Close to his ear, she murmurs, "I really should go."

He's still gently nuzzling her throat. "Mm."

Grace doesn't make any attempt to remove herself from his lap. Again, she strokes her fingers slowly through his hair, eternally fascinated by its texture, by the way the purest silver stands shine so brilliantly in the harsh overhead light. She wonders if her foolishness amuses him, if he's even aware of just how thoroughly captivated she sometimes is by him. Maybe, maybe not. For Boyd's bombastic self-assurance, there's a touch of endearing vulnerability just below the surface, a hint of insecurity deeply rooted in painful experience. He's not an easy man to like, let alone to love, and she knows he's well-aware of it. It's that thought that makes her say softly, "Peter…"

That makes him lift his head, expression faintly quizzical. Holding his gaze, Grace runs her fingertips along his jaw, feeling the harsh evening stubble giving way to longer, softer bristles as she reaches the point of his chin. Again, she kisses him, but this time it's a gentle salute, nothing more.

"Get out of here," he says, his voice a paradoxically tempting purr, "before I forget myself and completely compromise my professional integrity."

The shivers down her spine are back. With a vengeance. Grace knows that look in his eye; knows _him_. Knows what an impetuous, unpredictable creature he is; knows just how hot-blooded he is. She knows. Oh, yes, she knows. She should follow his instruction. Should stand up, say goodnight and walk away. She should go back to her empty house and her empty bed, content in the knowledge that propriety has been observed, that they have both behaved in an entirely appropriate manner for their age and professional status.

She wants him. Wants him so damned much; to hell with age and decorum.

Boyd's arms fall away as she stands up, and Grace clearly sees the quickly-masked flash of disappointment in his dark eyes. It almost makes her laugh, the knowledge that he hasn't second-guessed her. Not this time. So much of their relationship – professional and personal – has always been mired in the continuous clashing of two strong wills, in the endless challenge of two sharp minds perpetually trying to outmanoeuvre each other. Boyd is no academic, but he's wily and intelligent and perhaps that's always been part of the attraction. She has the education, he has the native cunning. It's a complementary mix. But this time she's way ahead of him, and if Grace knows him half as well as she thinks she does, which isn't really in question, when he finally catches on he's going to be a very happy man indeed.

There's always been a core of wilfulness in her; a defiant edge of rebellion that's never been particularly interested in conforming to anyone else's idea of who or what she should be, or of how she should conduct herself. Grace certainly plays the expected game of conventionality when necessary – as Boyd himself does – but there's a touch of wildness in them both, not just in him. It's exactly that which makes her quietly close the office door, precluding any chance of unwanted observation, exactly that which makes her also close the privacy blinds against non-existent eyes. Suddenly the rest of the world is firmly excluded and it's just the two of them again, back in their own intangible private place where so many things fleetingly become possible.

Boyd's hands are resting behind his head again, his relaxed posture belying the way he's watching her so keenly.

Quite deliberately, Grace stalks him. Neither of them are naïve, neither of them have reached their current age without learning a thing or two about spontaneity and desire. Age might be a bitch, as the old saying goes, but experience is a delight. Experience in general; experience of each other.

"Why do I think," Boyd asks mildly as she covers the last few feet separating them, "that you're about to take advantage of me, Doctor Foley?"

"Because you're a lot smarter than you look?" Grace suggests dryly. "Complaining?"

"Absolutely not. Though I should warn you that misconduct in the workplace may result in disciplinary action."

"Disciplinary action? A kink that I've previously been blissfully unaware of, Boyd?"

"Why do you think I became a police officer?"

"It was the handcuffs, wasn't it?" she suggests, looking down at him.

"And the uniform."

Truthfully, she says, "I've always had a bit of a thing about men in uniform."

Boyd grins. "That's what they all say, Grace."

_Their_ place, _their_ rules. It's enough. For now.

_- the end -_


End file.
